


Dangerous

by tinzelda



Series: SH AU [2]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 03:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Second part of the AU series, in which Holmes becomes more interested in Dr. Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> Tons of appreciation to flying_android for absolutely wonderful beta work. You were willing to help me out again when I asked, and then still willing all those weeks later when I finally finished the story and sent it to you. Thanks so much for your incredible attention to detail and for making me laugh.

Watching John Watson dressing was almost more distracting than seeing him naked. When he put on his jeans, leaving them unfastened as he looked for his shirt among the bedclothes, Holmes couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the small triangle of soft, grey cloth that peeked out from behind his zip until Watson sat on the bed and bent to put on his shoes. Then Holmes admired the strong lines of his back.

When Watson stood and pulled his T-shirt over his head, Holmes sighed, watching the fabric slide down to cover his chest and belly. There was so much more he wanted to do to that body, and now he wouldn’t have the opportunity. He was certain that Watson wouldn’t return but knew he should consider himself lucky—when he’d first kissed Watson he’d been certain that the man would run, or at least take refuge in indignant objections, but Holmes had been surprised. Very pleasantly surprised.

Holmes closed his eyes for a moment to savour the memory: Watson’s warm, responsive mouth, the throaty sounds he’d made when Holmes touched him, Watson’s powerful body under his, straining—

His thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of Watson moving, leaving the room. He reluctantly followed.

“Goodbye then,” Watson said. He seemed to be hesitating, but Holmes said nothing further to convince him to remain. He went to the window to watch Watson walk down the street. Now that Holmes knew of Watson’s injury, he wanted to see his stride, study the way his body had compensated. There was very little evidence to indicate that he had endured any serious injury. His weight rested on his left foot a fraction of a second longer than on his right, but his gait was otherwise even.

Watson turned, looked up at the window, and waved. Holmes hadn’t expected that. Watson had seemed so impatient to leave, but perhaps his anxiety truly had stemmed only from a desire not to be late getting to the hospital.

Holmes made himself walk away from the window. It was a waste of time to speculate about Watson’s motives. Holmes would turn his attention to his work. Absorbing himself in the case would distract him and put this strange afternoon into perspective, reduce it to what it was: a mere chance encounter, however pleasurable.

Feeling strangely foggy, Holmes went to his desk. His eyes refused to focus on the monitor. Perhaps a nap was what he needed.

Crawling into bed, Holmes arranged the pillows to make himself comfortable and pulled up the covers, but sleep was impossible—the bed smelled of Watson. It was a clean, spicy sort of smell, and it mingled in the sheets with detergent and sweat and sex and drove Holmes to distraction.

He climbed out of the bed and returned to his computer, but it was as if the scent was now on his own skin. He caught a hint of it now and again when he moved. Pushing himself up out of his chair, he went to draw a bath, turning on only the hot water tap and peeling off his pajamas. When the tub was filled, he added just enough cool water to make the temperature slightly less than scalding.

After giving himself a vigorous scrub, Holmes soaked in the steaming water and took several deep breaths. Nothing left of Watson. He could smell only his own familiar soap. Was it Watson’s soap that gave him that intriguing scent? His shampoo? Did Watson prefer baths or showers? Did he have a large, old-fashioned tub like this one? Holmes couldn’t quite picture Watson crowded into a small modern fixture and so imagined him there, in that very room, skin warmed by the hot water, limbs relaxed. But that was an image Holmes couldn’t allow himself. Too tempting. Too dangerous. He drained the tub and went to search for something halfway clean to wear.

An attempt to nap on the sofa, despite the lack of Watson-related aromas, was an exercise in futility. Holmes stalked the flat, still unable to shake that foggy feeling. He tried to remember the last time he’d eaten, but as there wasn’t anything in the kitchen, it seemed to be a moot question.

What he truly needed was work—he needed to get out, to be active and occupied, but when he had e-mailed Mycroft to explain about the scuffle in the alley and his subsequent trip to the hospital, brotherly instincts had apparently taken over. Mycroft had insisted that Holmes rest for at least twenty-four hours and allow himself to recover—as if he didn’t know that stewing at home, imagining bumbling incompetents like Lestrade ruining his efforts while he “rested” was the worst possible treatment. Holmes had begun to regret agreeing to work for Mycroft on this case in the first place.

Holmes’s eye landed on the remnants of the computer he had pulled out of the wreckage of the destroyed warehouse. Perfect. There was certain to be something he could salvage from the mess, and tinkering with its scorched innards would keep his hands and his brain busy for quite some time. He crossed the room to the stereo, turning the volume up loud. With the music filling his head, there wasn’t as much room for thoughts he’d rather ignore, and he was able to get to work.

*****

Holmes looked up when the music abruptly stopped. His first thought was that the power had been interrupted, but his monitor still glowed and his other equipment gave off a steady electronic hum in the sudden quiet. He whirled his desk chair around and saw Dr. Watson by the shelf, his hand still on the stereo button, a bag slung over his shoulder and his bulldog at his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes looked uncertain. “I did knock several times, but I could hear your music, so I—”

“Of course!” Holmes interrupted. His voice was too loud, and he quieted himself to a more acceptable level of enthusiasm. “Of course. I apologize. I tend to absorb myself in whatever I’m doing.”

They stared at each other. Holmes saw that Watson’s hair was damp, and his jaw line fairly glowed it was so very cleanly shaven. He must have taken time to shower and shave when he went home to retrieve his dog. Holmes thought that perhaps he ought to have groomed himself a bit as well, but why would he when he had worked so hard to convince himself that Watson would not be returning?

He had bathed, of course, but he couldn’t remember whether he had bothered to find a comb after he had towelled his hair dry. He had wanted to rid himself of the scent he’d found so distracting on his bedclothes, his own skin, but now that Watson was here again, Holmes had the urge to bury his face in Watson’s neck and simply breathe him in.

Watson was crouching next to his dog. “Do you mind if I take him off his lead? He’ll explore for ten minutes, then find somewhere to nap.”

“By all means.”

As the bulldog’s short, sturdy legs carried him around the room, Watson also wandered, casting frequent appraising looks in Holmes’s direction. He looked at a bookshelf as if reading the titles and found a violin bow tucked in above the books. He pulled it out, saw that most of its strings were broken, hanging down in shreds, and slid it back in. He didn’t speak, however, or send out any signals that invited Holmes to approach.

“Why did you come?” Holmes asked.

Watson turned and gave Holmes an intent look. His expression changed from surprised to puzzled to wary. “You asked me to come. I—” He broke off and grimaced. “You didn’t mean it. You asked, but you didn’t—”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I meant it, and I’m well aware of my own motivations. I was only curious as to yours.”

Moving one shoulder in a half-shrug, Watson seemed disconcerted. He moved away from the shelves toward the windows only to turn around and retrace his steps.

“You can tell me to bugger off if you don’t want to explain,” Holmes said.

Watson still did not answer.

Holmes decided it was time to get a more interesting reaction from his visitor. He cleared his throat and said, “You came for sex then.”

“No!” Watson cried. He stopped in his tracks, then smiled sheepishly. “Well, yes, but also…”

Holmes waited. He was intensely curious as to what other reason Watson would give, but he lounged back in his desk chair, idly twirling a pencil in his fingers.

“I find you so… surprising.”

Holmes sat up straight. “And do you like surprises, Dr. Watson?”

Walking to the windows again, Watson ignored the question and said, “You say you’re aware of your own motivations?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“You believe so?”

“Very well, I know it absolutely,” Holmes said. “I say that kind of thing to be polite.”

“Then tell me.”

“Tell you?”

“Yes. Tell me why you asked me to come.”

Holmes studied Watson, trying to determine whether he really wanted to hear the truth. He decided it was worth a gamble. “If you insist. Very simply put, I want to fuck you again.”

Watson looked embarrassed at Holmes’s frankness, and in his surprise he finally stopped his pacing about the room in favour of staring at Holmes.

“However, as you say, it’s not merely the sex,” Holmes continued. “I find _you_ rather surprising. In fact, I find you fascinating. You are without question the best looking man I’ve ever had the pleasure of tumbling into bed with, yet you seem to be absolutely without vanity.”

Watson looked away, uncomfortable.

“No, truly, I’m not attempting to flatter you. You’re completely unassuming in spite of your obvious physical attractions, and that intrigues me.”

With Watson’s face still turned away, Holmes could not read his expression.

“You said you’d never been with a man—you have no idea how very tantalizing that idea alone was for me—but you were neither shy nor tentative.”

A blush spread up Watson’s neck.

“The manner in which you described your time in Afghanistan was a bit puzzling. You seemed both rueful and amused at yourself for enlisting without believing you might be sent to the front lines, and having heard the blithe manner with which you describe your injury, I suspect you are frustrated that it was not, in fact, more debilitating.”

At this, Watson turned and frowned. Holmes suspected he had hit rather too close to the mark there but pressed on. He stood and slowly approached Watson as he spoke. “I also find it remarkable that you are so dutiful in your work at the hospital, even though it is obvious that your profession brings you little in the way of genuine satisfaction. I wonder what it is that you are really meant to be doing. Do you know, Dr. Watson?”

Watson did not answer. Every tick of the mantle clock made Holmes more certain that he had overstepped, but he put on a smile and said teasingly, “No, I haven’t had nearly enough time to learn all I want to know about you.”

“You seem to have learned quite a lot.” Watson said.

“Yes, well, I’m rather a student of human nature.”

Holmes was now standing directly in front of Watson, who was studying Holmes face intently. He leaned closer, hesitated, and then pushed his lips against Holmes’s abruptly. When he pulled away, he was frowning.

_He’s testing himself_ , Holmes thought. _He wants to see whether the attraction is still there_. Holmes had been mildly aroused since Watson had shut off the stereo and made his presence known, but now his whole body was alert anticipation.

He gave himself a moment to consider. On the one hand, he knew that his insistent, forceful attentions had stirred Watson that afternoon. Apparently the good doctor enjoyed being pushed a bit, challenged. On the other hand, Holmes thought he would very much enjoy seeing what Watson might do if left to his own devices. Without Holmes leading the way, where would Watson be willing to go?

Whichever course of action Holmes decided upon, he realized that he must at least do something to reassure Watson that their chemistry remained. Wrapping his arms around Watson’s waist, he pulled him close for a lingering kiss. Watson relaxed into the embrace, letting out a small sound that Holmes was certain indicated relief. Sliding his hands up into Holmes’s shirt, Watson moved his mouth over Holmes’s chin and down his neck, kissing and biting gently.

“Oh, yes,” Holmes whispered, pleased that Watson was taking charge, letting Watson push him over the sofa. They fell onto its cushions together, but Watson immediately slid off onto the floor, kneeling and pulling Holmes forward to kiss his lips. Holmes was surprised to so quickly feel Watson’s fingers pulling at his trousers, opening the button. He was even more surprised when Watson bent, without the slightest hesitation, and took Holmes’s cock into his mouth, moving slowly, his tongue exploring.

Holmes wanted to see. He wanted to watch Watson’s mouth as it worked and catch sight of every passing expression on Watson’s face, but it was too much: the sight of Watson on his knees, and the feeling of his tongue and lips, teasing. Holmes’s eyes fell closed. He forced himself to lean back, not to grab Watson’s head, not to push into his mouth.

Watson moved downward, taking the entire length of Holmes’s cock into his mouth, but he pulled away with a choking cough when the tip met the back of his throat. He looked up at Holmes, his lips shiny and wet. “I have no idea what I’m doing,” he whispered.

“You do,” Holmes gasped, already gently urging Watson’s head back down with one hand. “I assure you.”

Watson’s mouth closed on him again, and one of Watson’s hands was clenched on his right thigh. Watson made a noise in his throat, and Holmes’s eyes flew open. Watson’s mouth still slid over Holmes’ cock, and his arm was moving under his body—he was touching himself. To know that Watson was so aroused by what he was doing, so overcome that he didn’t want to wait, couldn’t wait, was staggering. Holmes could not tear his eyes away.

Watson groaned. The heat of his mouth was irresistible. Holmes heard himself cry out, but he wanted to hold off just a moment longer. Pushing Watson’s head away, Holmes shifted his body so he could touch Watson’s cock. His hand slid over the head awkwardly. Feeling clumsy, he forced himself to concentrate, placing his hand more carefully and gripping more tightly.

Gasping, Watson began to thrust forward. Holmes grabbed Watson’s right hand and pulled it toward his own cock. Watson opened his eyes a slit and gave a slow smile as he copied Holmes’ rhythm. Holmes watched Watson’s body, waiting until it tensed, until he was sure that Watson was right on the edge with him, and then finally let go, coming hard, feeling Watson’s cock jerk in his hand, smothering Watson’s cries with his mouth.

Watson collapsed onto Holmes’s legs with a sigh and lay there, panting. Holmes put one hand on Watson’s back and felt that his T-shirt was slightly damp with sweat. Without lifting his head, Watson looked up. “That was…”

“Yes,” Holmes answered. “It was, wasn’t it?”

Watson pulled himself up onto the couch, straddling Holmes’s lap to kiss him. Holmes pressed his face into Watson’s neck.

“Shave gel.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That scent. It’s your shave gel.” He breathed in again, satisfied. He felt utterly satisfied, he realized, wrapping his arms around Watson. He also felt a bit crushed—Watson leaned into him heavily, pressing him into the upholstery. They might be more comfortable elsewhere, or simply in a different position, but Holmes had no desire to move. His head fell onto the back of the sofa, and he thought he might fall asleep.

“Holmes…. What is that?”

Holmes looked over his shoulder to his desk, looking for whatever had caught Watson’s attention—the dismantled CPU on the worktable.

“The computer?” Holmes asked. “Just a small project.”

“It looks destroyed,” Watson said, pulling away and looking down into Holmes’ face.

“Perhaps not completely.”

“But what is it for?”

“We’re not exactly certain.”

“We?” Watson said, one eyebrow raised. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Myself and the people for whom I work.”

“That’s very vague.”

“I may have already said too much.”

“But you haven’t said anything,” Watson insisted. After a pause he asked, “Are you a spy?”

Holmes snorted a kind of laugh.

“No, wait,” Watson said, flashing a devastating crooked grin at Holmes. “Don’t tell me, because then you’d have to kill me. Isn’t that how it works?”

“That’s enough from you,” Holmes said with mock sternness. “I want you in my bed. Now.”

Watson closed his eyes. His entire body sagged slightly. “But I’m so bloody tired.”

“You’re done in,” Holmes agreed. “I can see that. I only want to sleep.”

“Oh,” Watson said. He looked surprised. Holmes didn’t think he was imagining that Watson also looked somewhat disappointed.

“For now,” Holmes added, earning a sly look from Watson.

Gladstone followed them into the next room and looked longingly at the high bed.

“Oh, no,” Watson said. “That’s not for you.”

Grunting, Gladstone turned and climbed into a low armchair.

“Is it all right with you if he sleeps there?” Watson asked. “I could make him get down.”

Holmes shrugged, feeling generous. The dog could sleep where he liked if his master was willing to share Holmes’s bed.

Sliding under the covers, Holmes watched Watson carefully as he undressed, looking for signs of discomfort or anxiety. He could see nothing of the sort. Watson pulled off all of his clothing and, apparently without any self-consciousness, used his T-shirt to wipe the remaining dampness off his stomach and crotch. He settled close to Holmes in the bed, wrapping one arm around him.

Holmes drifted off, only to be awakened some time later by Watson pulling away, moving slowly and carefully, obviously trying to slip out of the bed without waking Holmes. _He’s leaving_ , Holmes thought. _Perhaps it’s better this way. It will save us both the embarrassment of another awkward goodbye._ Holmes listened for the sounds of Watson searching in the dark room for his things but instead heard him padding out of the room.

A burst of suspicion flashed in Holmes’s brain: Could Watson have been sent here? Perhaps all of his questions suggested more than a tenacious mind. Had Holmes’s attraction clouded his judgment? Watson had asked about the scorched computer. The interest had seemed incidental, but—

The flush of the toilet cut off Holmes’s paranoia. He heard the water running as Watson washed his hands, and in a moment he was back in the bed, tucking himself up behind Holmes and sliding a hand across his belly.

*****

Holmes awoke to the sound of a telephone ringing. He was sure he must be dreaming, because it wasn’t the usual beeping that passed for ringing in the digital age. It sounded like an actual bell, bringing to mind the kind of phones used half a century before, heavy and black, with both a cord and a dial.

Trying to rise and find the source of this annoying noise, Holmes discovered that he was not alone in his bed, which made him even more certain that he was indeed deep in REM sleep. Then he remembered. _Watson._ Holmes opened his eyes and was surprised to see that the sun was coming up.

The phone rang again. Holmes didn’t want it to wake Watson. He slipped out from under Watson’s arm and hurried into the sitting room. One more ring was enough to pinpoint the source: he found the mobile on the floor in front of the sofa. Holmes smiled, amused that Watson would pick such an old-fashioned sounding ringtone for his phone. Holmes examined the buttons to see how to turn the bloody thing off, but it had stopped ringing. 

_Missed call: Mary_ , the screen read.

It took only a few pushed buttons to discover that Mary, whoever she might be, appeared on Watson’s call history more than any other name. In fact, few names other than hers appeared, in the lists of both incoming and outgoing calls. Holmes dropped the phone on the sofa and went to the put the kettle on. He would ignore the mobile and pretend that he had not heard it ring.

Three cups of tea later, Holmes was staring from across the room at the sleek silver shape resting on sofa cushion when it rang again. He let it ring, wondering if Watson would hear it, but there was no stirring in the bedroom.

Snatching up the phone, Holmes told himself that he should not form any conclusions, that he had no facts, no real data. He hated that the reminder was necessary. Falling into the chair in his bedroom, Holmes resolved to wait. He stared at Watson, willing him to wake.

After what seemed like an eternity, Watson stirred, his legs shifting under the bedclothes. He stretched, and the movement pulled the sheet down, exposing his torso. Holmes watched his ribcage rise and fall as he yawned. After a moment, Watson lifted his head and looked around, smiling when he saw Holmes in the chair.

“Damn your comfortable bed,” Watson said. “How long was I asleep?”

Holmes ignored the question and came to sit on the bed, his hip pressing against Watson’s knees. He had slipped the phone into his pocket. “You should know that I am very curious.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Watson teased. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“No—inquisitive.”

“Ah.” Watson rolled over onto his back and rubbed his eyes.

“And close observation is second nature to me. I truly cannot stop myself.”

“What on earth are you going on about?” Watson asked.

“Your mobile rang,” Holmes explained. “It must have fallen out of your pocket. I found it by the sofa. I didn’t intend to pry.”

“I still have no idea what you’re trying to say,” Watson said. His expression was still pleasant, and his manner was patient. He certainly didn’t seem to have a guilty conscience.

“Who is Mary?”

Watson froze.

“She called four times while you were sleeping,” Holmes said. He felt a childish need to remind Watson of why he had come. “Or while we were… otherwise engaged.”

Watson looked very unhappy.

“Is she your wife?”

“No!” Watson said, frowning. “No, I’m not married.” It seemed important to Watson not to be thought a cheating spouse. “Mary is my… I suppose I’d call her my girlfriend, but that seems such a juvenile word. She’s my very unhappy girlfriend.”

Holmes thought it would be wisest to keep silent on the subject.

Sighing, Watson sat up in the bed and took his phone from Holmes’s hand. “I should go and speak with her.”

“What will you say?”

“I expect she will do most of the talking,” Watson answered with a bitter smile.

_Will you tell her about me?_ Holmes wanted to ask, but he restrained himself.

Watson wanted to wash up, of course, and he was briskly efficient, but Holmes was impatient, circling the flat while he waited. If Watson were going to leave, it would be better to simply get it over with. When Watson clipped Gladstone’s lead onto his collar, Holmes knew it was finally time to say goodbye, to plaster a polite expression on his face, but Watson surprised him by approaching to give him a slow, gentle kiss.

“Shall I come back this evening?” Watson whispered.

Holmes was able to mask his reaction to those words, or at least Watson did not seem to notice his shock. “Of course,” Holmes answered, but he would not allow himself to be fooled. He knew exactly what would happen.

Watson would return to his dear, unhappy Mary, and he would confess everything. Yes, he was the gentlemanly sort, and he would not be comfortable if he could not be completely open and honest. He would admit that he had strayed but explain that it only confirmed what he had known before: he loved her. He would beg for her forgiveness, and one contrite look from those blue eyes would be enough. Of course he would be forgiven.

Holmes only hoped Watson would not be so much of a gentleman that he would attempt to contact him afterwards. He would rather not hear from Watson again if he were only apologizing.

When Watson started down the steps, Holmes firmly closed the door and went directly to his desk. He would not allow himself to watch Watson walk away. Work had proven to be an excellent distraction.

The moment he turned on his monitor, Holmes saw the e-mail from Clarkie and immediately clicked on the attachments. Excellent. It seemed that Holmes’s tiny camera had captured and transmitted a few discernible images before Holmes had been knocked unconscious and the equipment presumably dismantled or destroyed. He still wondered why he himself hadn’t been dismantled—by all rights he should be dead.

The photos were blurred and grainy—Holmes had been in the process of making final adjustments to the camera when he’d been so rudely and violently interrupted, but by digitally enhancing crucial portions of the pictures, Holmes was able to distinguish a few extra details, enough to produce a recognizable face: one of the three men who had assaulted him in the alley. It was a face Holmes recognized and one he knew Mycroft would recognize as well.

_I think we’ve found our security breach_ , Holmes thought with a smile. He forwarded the image to Mycroft and searched for his boots.

*****

By the time Holmes reached Mycroft’s building, there was nothing to be done. Lestrade had arrested the culprit, who in his panic had quickly implicated his accomplices. Mycroft was pleased and asked Holmes into his office to discuss the finer points of the case, but Holmes was too fidgety to stay. He instead climbed into a car with Clarkie, then lingered at the Yard until the last detail was resolved, but even so it was all too early that he found himself facing the stairs at Baker Street.

There was a long evening ahead of him, and now he didn’t even have the distraction of a case to occupy his mind. As he climbed the stairs, Holmes thought he caught a whiff of Watson’s shave gel, but he scolded himself and pushed the idea out of his head.

Rattling about the flat, Holmes could not settle. He regretted that the arrest had been effected so easily. A bit of a fight or a chase through the city streets would have done him some good. With nothing to keep him occupied and so much energy to burn, Holmes would not sleep. He lit a cigarette and thought about pouring himself a drink, but he would likely require something much stronger to quiet his brain that night. He strode into the kitchen to find the battered biscuit tin where he sometimes stashed his other, less legal means of self-medicating.

Holmes tripped as he entered the room and was astonished to see the sleepy, disgruntled face of Gladstone looking up at him from the dusty floor. They stared at one another until the dog grew bored, dropped his head back onto his paws, and closed his eyes. Holmes was dumbfounded. Had Watson returned?

Holmes charged through the flat to the bedroom, and there, snoring very quietly between Holmes’s sheets, lay Watson. His trousers were carefully folded over the arm of the chair, his shoes sitting side by side underneath. He hadn’t drifted off while waiting. He had made a conscious decision to undress and tuck himself into Holmes’s bed. The familiarity of it, the near domesticity of Watson making himself so much at home—it was disconcerting.

Gladstone appeared in the doorway, made curious by Holmes’s sudden flurry of activity. He trotted over to Holmes’s feet and looked up hopefully. Feeling a surprising flood of affection for the animal, Holmes bent to tug on one of his ears. Gladstone let out a gruff bark, and Holmes heard the bedclothes rustling. He turned in time to see Watson’s eyes open and a wide grin spread over his face.

Holmes was fairly certain Watson was too sleepy to be dissembling. That reaction, a bit muddled but very happy to see Holmes, was unfiltered, honest.

“Where have you been?” Watson said. The tone was not scolding, simply curious.

He reached out with one arm, and Holmes was tempted to jump into bed directly, but he thought he should be embarrassed to be so very eager. Instead, Holmes sat on the edge, and he was pleased when Watson moved closer and rested one hand on his thigh.

Holmes said, “I’ve been out solving my case.”

“Your case?” Watson asked with a mock-suspicious squint. “So you _are_ a spy?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m a consultant.”

“And with whom do you consult?”

“Ah, good question,” Holmes replied, laying his hand on Watson’s shoulder. “But I can’t tell you that.”

“Were you ‘consulting’ the other day when you ended up in my hospital?”

Holmes nodded.

“Maybe you need to find a different line of work.”

Holmes rolled his eyes.

“You had a serious concussion, Holmes. It’s nothing to scoff at.” Watson sat up. “How’s your head, by the way? Let me have a look at it.”

Watson knelt on the bed behind Holmes to examine his injury. Holmes was unconcerned—he felt fine—but he didn’t like that Watson was kneeling on his bed almost naked when he was unable to see it. He shook Watson’s hands out of his hair and turned to run his eyes over Watson’s body. Blushing, Watson smiled nervously. Holmes crawled close and pushed him back flat on the bed.

“Wait,” Watson said. His hand moved to rest on Holmes’s head just next to where he’d been struck. “Your work. It just seems a bit dangerous.”

_Dangerous?_ Holmes thought, finally pressing his lips to Watson’s. It rarely occurred to him to think of his work as dangerous. There were many calculated risks, but they could be determined and weighed. A probable outcome could be projected. There were many things more difficult to predict, much more impossible to understand. For example, the feeling that had sparked to life somewhere deep in his belly when he’d found Watson asleep in his bed. He shouldn’t let himself want this so very much.

Watson was dangerous. He was unsettling. Distracting to Holmes’ peace of mind. Challenging his hope that the game would be enough. That this was lust, he was very willing to grant, and he thought he could hardly find a more worthy object for his energy. But anything more? Too dangerous to even contemplate. _Nothing in my work is as dangerous as this._

Watson was still watching Holmes expectantly.

“I take every precaution,” Holmes lied.

“You don’t even lock your front door,” Watson said, still frowning. “I strolled right in.”

Holmes realized this was not a moment for a seduction attempt. Perhaps it would be better to change the subject.

“Did you see Mary?” he asked quietly. He fully expected to see Watson’s scowl deepen, but instead the lines on his forehead smoothed out as he nodded. “What happened?”

“She let me down very, very gently.”

Holmes was confused. The stupid woman let Watson go? He should feel relieved, but he was indignant on Watson’s behalf.

Watson sighed. “She said I was overcompensating.”

“What does that mean, precisely?”

“She said she knew I wasn’t happy, and that I only asked her to move in with me to make up for it.”

_He asked her to move in with him?_ Holmes wished he could stop pestering Watson like some lovesick pubescent girl, but the words clamoured in his mind and he couldn’t seem to silence them. _Did you tell her about me? Did you tell her about the things we’ve done?_ He finally settled on a less leading question. “And what do you think?”

Watson considered for a moment before he answered. “Perhaps I’ve felt… adrift. Ever since I came back from Afghanistan.”

“What makes you feel so unsettled? Post-traumatic stress disorder?”

As soon as he uttered the words, Holmes regretted them—it was hardly a subject to introduce in such an off-hand manner—but Watson laughed.

“No, nothing so dramatic. I think I was just lonely. That’s why I got Gladstone. I wanted to feel like someone cared whether or not I came home every night.” Watson looked at Holmes. “I didn’t tell her about you,” he said. “It would only hurt her.”

Holmes nodded. It hardly mattered, Holmes knew, not really, so why was Watson looking at him with such concern in his eyes?

“I realized that I wouldn’t have…” Watson looked uncomfortable. “ _Strayed_ … if I were happy. I normally… Well, I wouldn’t do such a thing. I don’t want you to think that I—”

Holmes pulled Watson close and kissed him. The conversation had gone on long enough.

It only took a moment for Watson’s body to relax into Holmes’s embrace. Holmes tried to take his time, tracing lines over Watson’s warm, smooth skin. He wanted to linger, but Watson was insistent, catching Holmes’s hand and drawing it down. Holmes did not argue, wrapping his fingers around Watson’s cock and licking into his mouth. Watson’s breathing was becoming ragged, and he rocked his hips up into Holmes’s hand.

“There’s no need to hurry,” Holmes whispered into Watson’s ear. “We could—”

Watson’s eyes sprung open. He turned his head and gave Holmes a wild and desperate look.

“No? Too late to go slowly? Well then…” Holmes inched his way down Watson’s neck with light kisses. “If you cannot wait, I could give you some relief now.”

Watson moaned.

“I’ll make you come, and then I’ll take my time with you.”

Watson grabbed Holmes head roughly and kissed him.

“I’ll open you slowly,” Holmes continued, breathless from the kiss. “First one finger, then two. And then a third, and when you’re ready, when you beg me—”

“God, Holmes…”

“I want to see you,” Holmes said. His voice was hoarse. He leaned down to breathe into Watson’s ear. “I want to see your face when I slide into you, filling you up.”

“Please,” Watson gasped. “ _Please._ ”

_Dangerous_ , Holmes thought again as he began to stroke more quickly. He pressed his face into Watson’s neck.

Watson had come back. He wouldn’t stay, of course, but he was there now, groaning and pleading and close to coming. It ought to be enough. Holmes should be happy, but he felt uncertain, unbalanced. Ready to fall.

The End


End file.
